When I tell people I’m afraid to fly, the usual response is, “Oh yeah, me too.” They complain about uncomfortable seats, long lines at security and baggage check, lousy food, the high cost, and on and on. They may even express a bit of trepidation about the flying part itself.
But let me be clear: I am TERRIFIED to fly. I had flown a few times as a kid and as a teenager and it didn’t bother me much, but by the time I was in my mid-twenties, I had concluded that there’s no logical way an object that weighs several tons can stay up in the sky for hours on end without falling to the ground.
When it did succeed (which it almost always did), I considered it akin to a miracle. It’s not the most rational perspective, but rationality doesn’t play into it. Yes, it’s safer to fly than drive, statistically speaking. Don’t give me the facts. My gut says, human beings aren’t meant to be thousands of feet in the air.
Still, 17 years ago, I had a very compelling reason to get on an airplane, and despite my fears, I did it, wobbly legs and all. After more than a year of waiting, my husband and I were headed to Guatemala to meet our daughter and bring her home.
Maya was born on July 10, 2000, to a single woman living in poverty—unfortunately, an all-too-common scenario for many mothers and children in that country and other parts of the world. For us, though, her birth was the furthest thing from unfortunate. It felt, and still feels to this day, like something that was meant to be.
Rather than undergoing infertility procedures with uncertain results, I had decided early on that what was important to me was to be a mom, not to give birth. Though I had a wonderful husband (still do), great stepchildren, and a fulfilling career, much of the time I felt empty inside. As clichéd as it sounds, I knew what the expression “hole in my heart” meant. Going to baby shower after baby shower, watching my friends go through pregnancy and childbirth and starting families… I did my best to be happy for them, and in many respects I truly was. But it became increasingly difficult to not feel sorry for myself. I didn’t need lots of money, or a huge house, or a BMW. I just wanted what it seemed so easy for my friends to have: a child.
Scary as it was, entering the belly of the beast—the jet headed to Guatemala—meant that the life I had dreamed of for years was finally about to begin. For people hoping to adopt, what replaces labor pains is waiting, and we had waited a very long time.
After making the decision that adoption was the right route for us, my husband, Phil, and I did some research, chose an adoption agency, and received a videotape of several babies from which to choose our “assignment.”
Watching that video felt so strange: seeing images of beautiful, innocent little human beings and trying to “pick” the one who would become the center of our lives. I don’t know if there is such a thing as divine intervention, or fate, but both my husband and I quickly were drawn to the same child. The video showed the foster parent blowing bubbles to several different babies. Maya’s eyes lit up with delight as she reached for the floating orbs and they popped in her fingers. She giggled—no, it was more like a belly laugh—which seemed to us an amazing accomplishment for a three-month old. She was the one.
Next up, tons of paperwork, agency visits, court appearances. Photos and videos periodically arrived from Maya’s wonderful foster family. She was absolutely gorgeous. She laughed, played, cried and screamed with abandon. Friends who saw the video called her “spirited” and told us that we were in for quite a ride with this one.
On July 10, 2001, Maya turned one. We had started the entire adoption process months before she was even born. But late in August, the word came from our lawyer in Guatemala: The paperwork was done. Make your plane reservations.
A few weeks later, we were on a 7 a.m. flight from JFK to Guatemala. It was a gorgeous day, bright and sunny, without much of a wind. A good day to fly, I thought, although I didn’t really feel like any day was a good day to fly. It had been 10 years since I’d been on a plane, but at least we had good weather.
I was still scared, but there was no question I was getting on that airplane. The date was September 11, 2001.
Our flight made it as far as Miami before all air traffic was required to land, a little after 9 a.m. We ended up renting a car and driving home from Florida, without our daughter, and with a profound sadness that was felt by everyone in our country. With embassies around the world closed for weeks, we were forced to wait, once again, to meet the little girl who we felt was our own but had never seen or heard or held in person.
Unlike the many stories of those who lost loved ones that day, ours had a happy ending. We were able to have an escort bring Maya to the U.S. on November 24, 2001, ending what had been a very long and painful labor. She was 16 months old. And in the 17 years since, life for our family has had tremendous highs and, yes, some lows, but never a day goes by where I don’t feel grateful for being Maya’s mom.
Note: This story, written by Jenna Kern-Rugile, the Director of Communications at North Shore Child & Family Guidance Center, first appeared in Long Island Parents & Children magazine.
